by Lea Wait
“I’m so sorry this all happened,” I said. “If it wasn’t for me, we wouldn’t be standing in this room wondering how badly Tom’s been injured.”
“Life in Haven Harbor hasn’t been boring since you came home,” Gram agreed. “Baked-bean suppers were never this exciting. But everything will be all right. Except . . . I think you’re going to have to buy another car.”
“I suspect so,” I agreed, looking from one of them to the other. Gram was holding Tom’s hand, and, despite the pain he was in, they seemed to be doing fine. Would I ever have a relationship like theirs? “Pete Lambert was on the street. He’ll be investigating. Although it might fit into what Ethan Trask is doing about Clem’s murder.”
“You mean the two events could be related?” said Gram.
“It was my car, and I’ve received death threats.” Saying that out loud made this crazy situation sound almost logical.
“I’m glad it wasn’t you opening that car door, Angie,” Tom’s face showed pain, but he kept talking. “I’m a tough old bird. If I add a scar or two, it’ll just make me more distinguished. If anything had happened to you, I don’t think I’d ever have forgiven myself.”
Gram had married the right man. I wished she’d found him years ago.
A nurse arrived to wheel Tom, bed and all, to X-ray. He waved as he left.
“Gram, is he really going to be all right?”
“I hope so, Angel. All signs look positive so far. We’ve done a little praying, and I think the good Lord‘s come through for us. An orthopedic surgeon’s going to have to fix his shattered leg, but, as long as they don’t find bleeding in his chest, he’ll be frustrated and not able to hike for a while, but he’ll be all right.”
I hugged her, tight.
“I hope so. I’d like to stay here with you both, but I need to let Patrick know what’s happening and where to pick me up. Sarah dropped me off here. Her shop window was broken in the blast. She’ll want to know how you both are.”
Plus, despite Shaundra’s presence outside the emergency room, I didn’t think it was smart for me to stay near Gram and Tom. If anyone was looking for me—and it was hard to believe that explosion hadn’t been meant for me—they’d look for me where my grandmother and Tom were. Gram and Tom would be safer if I were somewhere else. Anywhere else.
“You call whoever you need to, Angel, and get to Patrick’s, or wherever the police think you’ll be safe. Tom and I’ll be fine here. I’ll let you know the official diagnosis once we hear it. Don’t you worry about us. I don’t know what that crazy person is thinking, but you don’t want to be anywhere near where he is.”
“You’re right. We need to end this as soon as possible. We need to know who killed Clem, and who hurt Tom.”
Gram held my hand, tight. “Just don’t let it be you next time, Angel. Keep safe.”
“I’ll do my best, Gram,” I assured her. I was assuring myself, too.
Chapter 23
“To move me For to Watch and Pray
To Strive to be Sincere
To take My Cross Up Day By Day
And Serve the Lord in Fear.”
—Stitched, with alphabets and numbers, by Mary Chamberlin, age ten, in Rhode Island, sometime during the mid-nineteenth century.
I asked Shaundra to keep an eye on anyone looking for me or Gram or Tom.
She waved when Patrick picked me up outside the emergency room twenty minutes later. Trixi was meowing pitifully in her carrier in the backseat of his BMW.
“I would have been here earlier,” he said, “but Trixi was not enthused about getting into her carrier.” He pushed up the sleeve of his jacket to show me a nasty scratch still oozing blood.
I decided not to show him my matching fingers. At least not until we were out of the car and in a place with good light and tweezers. I hoped I didn’t still have shards of glass in my hands.
“So—talk. What were you doing at the hospital?” He headed his car for home. His home. “I suspect you hadn’t just stopped in to say hello to the doctors.” Patrick’s lips were tight. He was upset. “What happened to you? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Tom’s the one who’s hurt,” I explained quickly. “I asked Gram and Tom to move my car from downtown to my barn. When Tom opened the car door, something exploded. Tom shattered his leg and broke some ribs. Gram’s with him. He’s having more tests to make sure there’s no internal bleeding, and, assuming there isn’t, he’ll have surgery to set the bones in his leg.”
Patrick glanced over at me, as though to make sure I was really all right. “Angie, that could have been you in that hospital. You could have been killed!”
“I know. We’re lucky Tom wasn’t hurt more.”
“A shattered leg isn’t good,” Patrick said. “But, selfishly, I’m glad you’re all right. I should hire bodyguards to keep an eye on you, and on the house.” He was serious.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” I said. “Did you bring my extra bullets?”
“I got everything on your list. I thought I’d be collecting Trixi, and some of your makeup or underwear, and instead I was rummaging in the back of drawers for bullets.” He wasn’t smiling. “I assume your car’s totaled?”
“It burned. The fire department doused the flames, but the foam they used and then the water from the hoses all froze. My car is now black instead of red, and looks like a giant ice cube.” I tried to make a joke of it, but the reality was sinking in.
Clem was dead. Tom needed serious surgery on his leg. I’d have to buy a new car.
And whoever was causing all this was still out in the world somewhere. Most likely, somewhere nearby. Or at least he or she had been there recently. How long would it take for him to figure out where I was? Pete was right; staying at my home wasn’t smart. But staying with Patrick would, for anyone who knew me, be an obvious alternative.
I didn’t want anyone else hurt. I might not have a car, but I had a telephone. I could talk with people.
Patrick was looking grim. I suspected he wouldn’t loan me his car. But maybe I could convince him to drive me to Portland tomorrow so I could talk to Clem’s colleagues. Pete and Ethan were covering what was happening in Haven Harbor, but I couldn’t believe this problem had started in my hometown. Somehow it had started at an auction house in Augusta.
I should call that gallery assistant again.
Ideas swirled through my mind, like the sea smoke that had invaded the town earlier.
“What are you thinking about?” asked Patrick as we neared his home. “You look serious.”
“Just tired,” I assured him.
“We use the same cat food, so I didn’t bring yours. I have plenty. But I did bring Trixi’s food and water dishes.” He glanced at me. “I think I found the right hand lotion and toothpaste. And I’ll admit your clothes weren’t as interesting to go through as I’d hoped. A flannel nightgown? Really, Angie?”
“I have a whole drawer of them.”
“As I now know,” said Patrick.
“It’s winter in Maine!” I said.
“Which I am also well aware of,” he agreed. “But, still . . .”
“Trixi thinks my nightgowns are fine. Cozy and warm. If I leave one out on my bed, she sleeps on it.”
Patrick shook his head, his eyes sparkling. “I suspect no additional comments from me would be appropriate just now. I’m happy for you and Trixi.”
I almost laughed. It felt good. I hadn’t laughed in a while.
“I stopped at the grocery, too. If we need to hunker down and hide you for a week, we won’t starve.”
“Thank you,” I said, although I hoped I wouldn’t be imposing on him for a week.
“Only thing I’m concerned about is whether Bette and Trixi will recognize each other, as sisters, and get along.”
“We’ve always joked we should get them together. You’re right. It’ll be interesting.”
“Since Bette is used to my house and Trixi isn’t, why don’t I put
Bette in my bedroom and close the door while we get the food and your stuff out of the car. That way our cats don’t need to confront each other immediately, and Trixi can explore a little.”
“Good plan,” I agreed.
The gates to Aurora’s driveway were closed. Usually Patrick left them open when his mother was out of town. He stopped, pushed a button on his keychain, and they opened for us. “A precaution,” he said, glancing at me. “All my windows and doors are locked, and the back entrance to the estate is closed.”
As the gates closed in back of us, I felt as though I were entering a prison.
But at least I had a handsome guard.
Chapter 24
“Sacred to the Memory of the Illustrious
Washington.”
—Samuel Folwell (1764–1813), who worked at the school run by his wife, Ann Elizabeth Folwell (1770–1824), in Philadelphia, designed this needlework memorial stitched in 1800. It depicts a Revolutionary War soldier with an inverted musket, next to Liberty, who is mourning at a grave under a willow tree.
We carted everything into the house: Trixi in her carrier, groceries, and the garbage bag Patrick had used for what I’d needed from my house. I’d forgotten to tell him my duffel bag was in the closet in the room that had been Mama’s. In my mind it would always be her room. But I didn’t think she’d have minded my using her empty closet for storage.
Patrick captured his Bette, who’d immediately come to check out her guest, and locked her in his bedroom while I started putting away the groceries he’d bought.
He’d bought enough food for a week, maybe two. I shook my head at the several bottles of champagne and the case of wine. Clearly he had plans that didn’t include crime solving.
And I could probably be talked into eating part of the thick steak he’d bought that I assumed would go with the baking potatoes. Three-dozen eggs and two pounds of bacon would be more than enough for two people. He’d also bought a lot of cheeses and crackers and Italian sausage and bread, and enough pasta, vegetables, and fruit for several dinner parties.
I filled one of his salad bowls with oranges. Had I eaten lunch? I didn’t think so.
“I put your stuff in the bedroom,” Patrick said as he joined me in the kitchen.
I’d just peeled the orange and put two slices in my mouth. The citric acid stung the cuts on my hand.
“What happened to your hands?” he asked, looking at my fingers.
“The explosion broke the front window in Sarah’s shop. I was trying to rescue some of her antiques from blowing snow, and the shards of glass cut my fingers.”
He put his arms around me, and for a few moments I felt safe. Was that being anti-feminist? I hoped not. After all, I was the one in this relationship with a gun.
Trixi meowed loudly from inside her carrier.
“We should soak those hands of yours. But cats come first. Children are so demanding.” Patrick ruffled my hair as we headed back to the living room. I opened the carrier. Trixi hesitated a moment, and then galloped (can a cat gallop?) out and raced across the room. After a frenetic few minutes she slowed down and started inspecting (and sniffing) every bit of furniture.
I filled her food dish with her favorite canned cat food, put fresh water in her water dish, and put them both in a corner of the living room, far from Bette’s dishes in the kitchen. Trixi sniffed, nibbled, and then went back to exploring.
“We should show her the litter pan, right?” I asked.
“Good idea,” said Patrick.
I carried her into the small hallway between Patrick’s living room and studio where the litter pan was. Trixi looked unimpressed, other than sniffing a lot. She probably smelled Bette. Then she headed into the studio.
“Have you got any open paints or jars of water in there?” I asked Patrick. “I don’t want her to mess up anything of yours.”
“Everything’s sealed, and, if not, it’s behind doors in the cabinet,” Patrick assured me. “I already have a cat, remember?”
Several of his oils, partially finished, stood on easels in his studio. Two were Maine scenes, like the one he’d given me for Christmas. Another was spirals of blue and green and white. “Supposed to be the inside of a wave,” he explained. “A work in progress.”
A larger abstract, this one in oranges, reds, and yellows, was on the inside wall of the studio. “I like that one,” I said. “It’s a little like the one hanging over your couch in the living room.”
“I’m trying to decide whether it’s finished or not,” he said. “My hands are still giving me problems, and sometimes paint ends up in places I didn’t intend. If I’m lucky, that works. If not, I start again.”
“I’m glad you’re painting,” I said. Patrick’s hands had been badly burned when the original carriage house at Aurora had burned early last summer. He hadn’t started painting again until December.
“Me too,” he said, squeezing my shoulder.
“How do you manage to paint, with Bette here?” I asked as Trixi sniffed her way around the studio. She liked the floor-to-ceiling windows that gave the room the feeling of being outside, even if the bottom of the windows was now blocked by snowdrifts.
“If I’m going to have open paint that she could get in trouble with, I close the studio door for a while,” he said. “She’s pretty good about it all; seems to know paint isn’t food, and that water used to soak paint brushes doesn’t taste good.”
“We’ll have to watch Trixi, to make sure she understands, too.”
Trixi went back to the living room and settled in to have some lunch. That reminded me I still hadn’t eaten.
“Mind if I make a sandwich? Peanut butter would be fine,” I said. (Patrick’s kitchen supplies included a two-pound jar of peanut butter. It would have lasted me months.) “With the explosion and Tom’s being hurt and all, I haven’t had much to eat today.”
“No wonder you were eating an orange in the kitchen! Tell you what. I’ll heat water for you to soak your hands in, and you check with your grandmother about Tom. I’ll make you a sandwich. You sit and relax. Your job is to keep an eye on Trixi.”
I curled up on Patrick’s couch and watched as Trixi followed him into the kitchen. I couldn’t see her when she was in there, but Patrick could. A few minutes later he brought me a bowl of hot water on a pile of towels and put everything on the glass-topped coffee table in front of me.
“Hands in,” he instructed. “After you’re sure those cuts are clean, we’ll see if you need bandages. Why don’t you call your grandmother on the speaker while you’re soaking?”
I obeyed instructions.
“Angel? I’ve been thinking about you. How are you, and where are you?”
“Trixi and I came straight to Patrick’s. We’re fine,” I assured her. “What did Tom’s CT scan show?”
“His leg is broken in several places, which isn’t good, but the orthopedist assures us it will mend, with a little help from surgery and a cast. And time. Turns out two of his ribs are cracked, but not broken, so they should heal, too. The scan didn’t show any internal injuries.”
“Thank goodness.”
“They’re preparing him for surgery now. He’s pretty much out of it with the pain meds they’ve given him. Just as well. He’ll have to stay here a night or two. After the swelling goes down, they’ll send him home with a cast and a walker.”
“I assume he’s not supposed to do much walking at first.”
“I’m glad our bedroom and bath are on the first floor. I’ve already called a friend of his over to Brunswick who’s a retired minister. He’s agreed to take over the service Sunday.”
“Does Tom know?”
“Not yet. But he’ll need some time off. After this Sunday we’ll see how he feels and what his doctors say.”
“Gram, I’m so sorry you both have to go through this.”
“Life is full of bumps. There are worse ones. Like those Clem’s family is dealing with. Which reminds me that I should talk to them a
bout her funeral. I’m not sure what they have in mind, or when. Tom usually takes care of church business. But his secretary knows the drill. She and I’ll manage until he’s feeling better.”
“Gram, he’s lucky to have you.”
“And I’m lucky to have him. And you. But let’s not get mushy about it all. Angel, I have to go now. They’ve come to take Tom to the operating room, and I’m going to walk along with him as far as I can.”
“Call me when he’s out of surgery.”
“Will do.”
Patrick came in, carrying a plate of peanut butter sandwiches, all neatly cut in triangles. “How’re your hands doing?”
“They feel much better,” I said. “Really.” He handed me one of the towels he’d brought in earlier, and I dried them gingerly.
“Need bandages?” he asked.
“I don’t think so. Nothing is bleeding right now, and the cuts are clean.”
“Good,” he said, sitting next to me, handing me the plate of sandwiches, and taking one for himself. “I haven’t had lunch either, although I did make breakfast for Steve this morning.”
I picked up one of the triangles and started eating.
“How was Steve?”
“Considering that the woman in his life had just been murdered, I’d say he was coping well.”
“When did he get to Haven Harbor?”
“I didn’t cross-examine the man, Angie. When he got to the Walkers’ house they’d already heard about Clem. He stayed there until Ethan and Pete had questioned him. I called him right after I talked to you. He was relieved to have somewhere to go, to leave the Walkers to grieve, but not have to drive far.”
“Did he say anything about breaking up with Clem?”
“Breaking up? No. Not at all.” Patrick shook his head. “He said the dinner with the Walkers last night was supposed to be the unofficial ‘meet the parents’ night. He was nervous, and had dressed up. Buttoned shirt, slacks, sweater.”
